


The Game of Courtship

by Netgirl_y2k



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, First Crush, First Time, Frottage, Kissing, The more things change the more they stay the same, doomed romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2435141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/pseuds/Netgirl_y2k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game of Courtship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [averita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/averita/gifts).



> Thank you to lareinenoire for very helpful beta reading!

_i. Winterfell_

The wheelhouse that pulled into Winterfell's yard was green with golden vines painted around the door and windows. It was splattered with mud from the long journey up the Kingsroad, and the paint was peeling off in places. 

A liveried footman jumped down and placed a set of steps below the door.

Jeyne Poole clutched Sansa's hand. "I heard that the Tyrells have three sons," she said, "each more handsome and gallant than the last."

An older woman, muffled up against the cold, descended first from the wheelhouse; a beautiful maid followed, her brown hair was curling prettily from beneath her hood.

"Oh," said Jeyne in a small, disappointed voice when it became clear that only the Tyrell women had made the journey. "I thought the boys would be here." 

Sansa wasn't truly listening. The girl had pushed back her hood, and she looked like every story of beautiful southron maidens that Sansa had ever heard; she looked like Jonquil come to life.

Lady Olenna Tyrell and her granddaughter, the Lady Margaery, were presented to the Starks; Lord Eddard presented his wife and children in turn. 

Sansa dipped a deep curtsy when she was presented to the Tyrells. Lady Margaery's lips quirked up, causing Sansa to blush.

"Well," said Lady Olenna, adjusting her muffler pointedly, "shall we continue this somewhere warmer?"

Lady Catelyn cleared her throat; Robb stepped forward and offered Lady Margaery his arm. Sansa wished that she had been standing close enough to whisper to Robb to offer Lady Margaery his cloak; it would have been gallant, and the Tyrell girl looked cold.

Lady Margaery entered the Great Hall of Winterfell on Robb's arm; Lady Olenna walked in on Lord Eddard's. Sansa followed behind with the rest of the household.

"Lady Margaery is very pretty," said Bran. 

Arya made a gagging sound, and Sansa glared at her sister. "I think so too," she whispered to her little brother. 

*

The Tyrells had brought musicians with them from the south, and they played while the Starks feasted them.

Margaery danced with Robb. Sansa might have wished for her brother to talk more but at least he didn't trip over his feet. Robb had grown taller recently, and had the beginnings of a beard. Sansa wondered if Margaery found him handsome?

Later Lady Margaery danced with Jon Snow, which made Sansa's stomach swoop unpleasantly. "Margaery's a pretty name," she heard him say dutifully as they danced by the high table. 

Sansa danced with Bran, who didn't yet come up to her shoulder, Jory Cassel, and Theon Greyjoy; Theon annoyed Sansa by constantly turning her so that he could stare at Margaery over her shoulder.

In between dances Sansa found herself sitting alone with Lady Olenna. 

"How old are you, my girl?"

"Fourteen," Sansa answered. She knew Lady Margaery was two years older than her, of an age with Robb.

Lady Olenna tucked a wrinkled finger under Sansa's chin and tilted her face up. "Fourteen and lovely," she said. "You'd fit in well with all the little birds that flock around Highgarden. Though mayhap your father will make you a northern match; tell me, is one of these stern fellows of the north to be yours?"

"I don't know," Sansa answered honestly. She had thought much of her wedding, little of the groom; she had never really considered that she might marry one the boys she knew.

There was the possibility of an alliance with the Tyrells. That's why they'd come all this way, after all, so that Robb and Margaery could become acquainted. But Sansa didn't know if there were any plans for her or her younger siblings yet.

Margaery Tyrell joined them; she was smiling, and her colour was high from dancing. "My grandmother isn't pricking you, is she?" she asked Sansa. "They call her the queen of thorns for a reason."

The queen of thorns turned to her granddaughter. "I'm just getting to know Lady Sansa. I would hope that she would be a friend to you, if you were to come and live at Winterfell."

Sansa's heart swelled at the thought of Margaery Tyrell bringing some of her southron beauty and grace to Winterfell. "I'd like that very much," she said, trying to keep her smile demure.

*

"If Robb and Margaery were to marry--" Sansa squirmed round in her chair to look at her mother "--would the wedding be here at Winterfell?"

Lady Catelyn turned Sansa back around so that she could finish brushing her hair. "They only met today, Sansa. They may not come to like one another, and we would not force them to wed if they didn't."

"Why wouldn't they like one another? Robb's going to be lord of Winterfell someday, and Margaery is--" Sansa found herself lacking the words to adequately describe Lady Margaery.

"Margaery Tyrell is southron lady. Life at Winterfell would be a big adjustment for her, or her family may decide that they would prefer to make her a southron match."

"You came from the south," Sansa turned around again. "You could talk to Lady Margaery; you could tell her how much you came to love it here, and about the sept father built for you." 

Lady Catelyn firmly turned Sansa back and took the brush to her hair. There was a laugh in her voice when she said, "Anyone might think that it was you who hoped to become betrothed to Margaery Tyrell."

*

Robb was perfectly charming and courteous to their guests, but Sansa thought that he could be doing more to actually court Margaery Tyrell. 

The third time Robb invited Margaery to watch him practice with Jon in the tiltyard Sansa accompanied them. She rarely watched Robb training anymore, though she'd still watch Bran practicing at swords; her little brother found her cheers, applause, and tales of knightly valour encouraging. 

"I'm sorry if this is boring for you," Sansa said politely. 

"Your brothers are very skilled," said Margaery. She tilted her head towards Sansa as though they were truly confidants. "Although, I do have three brothers of my own. I've seen this many times before."

"Has Robb shown you the glass gardens yet?" Margaery shook her head no. "They're mostly for growing vegetables, but there are some beautiful blue winter rose too." 

Sansa noticed that Margaery was rubbing her hands together and that her nose was red. "We would be warmer in there too."

"Do you think we would be missed?" Margaery asked with a glance towards the tiltyard. Robb and Jon had spurred their horses into a canter, and they both missed their targets.

"No," said Sansa. It was cruel of her to laugh at Robb, but she couldn't help sharing a conspiratorial giggle with Margaery as they turned away from the boys.

*

Sansa had decided to take Lady Margaery a pair of fur-lined gloves as a gift. She had noticed that the other girl often seemed cold, and her only gloves appeared to be thin kidskin ones.

As Sansa approached she noticed that the door of their guest chambers was ajar. The queen of thorns' voice drifted out, and Sansa froze on the point of knocking. 

"So you won't be the next lady of Winterfell after all," said Lady Olenna. Sansa could almost hear the shrug in her voice.

"It's rather a shame," came Margaery's reply. "Lord Robb seemed as though he would make a pleasant enough husband."

"An unobjectionable young man, yes," said Lady Olenna, making it sound almost a compliment. "But marrying you to the next warden of the north sounded more appealing before we actually _saw_ the north. There is little enough to recommend being the most powerful woman in this frozen wasteland."

Sansa backed away from the door as quickly and quietly as she could. She knew she ought to be offended - as Robb's sister, as a Stark of Winterfell - but all she could think was that Lady Margaery was going to return to Highgarden and leave Sansa behind.

*

Sansa plucked the prettiest and sweetest smelling of the blue winter roses. She planned to have Robb give the flower to Margaery and say something gallant about how roses could bloom in the north. How could Lady Margaery resist? But before she could seek out her brother, Sansa crossed paths with Margaery Tyrell.

"Lady Sansa! Going courting?" Margaery greeted her brightly, and nodded at the rose Sansa clutched.

Sansa blushed. She could not now give the rose to Robb, Margaery would know that it had come from Sansa. "It's, um, for you."

Margaery raised the rose to her nose and inhaled before Sansa could invent a reason as to why she'd given another girl a flower. "It's lovely," she said graciously. "Thank you, my lady."

"It's a farewell gift," Sansa blurted out. "I was sorry to hear that you'll be leaving us."

"Ah," said Margaery. She took Sansa's arm; the blue rose dangled from the fingers of her free hand. "My grandmother and I had hoped to talk with you about that. Though I'm not to be the next lady of Winterfell, it would be a shame if an alliance between the Tyrells and the Starks were to come to naught, and we thought you might like to join us at Highgarden. You could become accustomed to life at a southron court, you would meet my brothers, and we would be as sisters, you and I; would you like that, Sansa?"

"More than anything," Sansa answered earnestly. "But I'm not sure that my parents would allow it."

Margaery gave Sansa's arm a little squeeze. "Leave that to my grandmother."

*

None of the Stark children had ever been fostered out. 

In Robb's case this wasn't unusual; the heir to Winterfell was expected to be _at_ Winterfell. But Lady Catelyn's own brother had offered to take Bran on as a page and later a squire and been refused, as had Maege Mormont when she'd offered to foster Arya on Bear Island. 

Jeyne Poole had overheard her father speaking of it once; Lord Eddard had always refused to send Jon Snow away, but he had softened this by promising his lady wife that he would not send any of her children away either.

It took some unladylike begging from Sansa, lengthy negotiations between Lady Catelyn and the queen of thorns, and Margaery opining that a beauty such as Sansa was surely destined for the south anyway (words which caused butterflies to take flight in Sansa's belly), but Sansa was to be fostered in Highgarden.

*

Lady Olenna entered the wheelhouse first; Lady Margaery lingered in the courtyard while Sansa said her farewells. She hugged her parents and then Robb; she received an awkward bow from Jon Snow, and responded with a stiff curtsy. Bran seized her fiercely around her middle, and she went to one knee to say goodbye to Rickon. Even Arya elbowed Sansa in the ribs in what passed for an embrace between the Stark sisters. 

Lady Margaery offered Sansa her hand with a kind, welcoming smile. Sansa noticed that Margaery was wearing the fur-lined gloves Sansa had given her; she took Margaery's hand and stepped into the wheelhouse and her new life.

 

_ii. Highgarden_

Sansa had lived for more than a year at Highgarden.

She'd been entertained by fools and singers. She had ridden pleasure barges down the Mander, and eaten peaches and fireplums until her mouth and fingers were sticky with their sickly sweet juices. She'd hawked, and she had once ridden along with the hunt - though she'd had to look away when the stag was killed, and had refused all invitations to go again.

At least twice a week she rode out down the Roseroad with Margaery and her cousins. 

Sansa had not been much of a rider at Winterfell; that had always been Arya's gift. But Highgarden's stables were amongst the finest in the realm, and Margaery had coaxed and wheedled Sansa into joining them; even going so far as to promise to keep their party to Sansa's pace until she grew in confidence.

But these other activities were reserved for later in the day; Sansa's mornings were spent with Margaery and her grandmother in the queen of thorns' private garden. 

"Are you sure that Lady Sansa wouldn't be happier with your mother and her flock of little birds?" Lady Olenna had asked the first time Margaery had arrived with Sansa in tow. 

"Quite sure," Margaery had replied brightly.

Alla, Elinor, and the others came and went; Sansa was there every day. 

Margaery and her grandmother would speak of everything disguised as nothing. Sansa would listen with casual attentiveness, and keep her fingers busy with her embroidery. 

On one particular morning Margaery and her grandmother were talking of Ser Garlan's upcoming wedding, and Sansa was occupied with stopping the puppy on her lap from chewing on her skirt. 

The pup had been a sixteenth nameday gift from Lord Willas, who bred hounds as well as horses. The little creature had liquid brown eyes and long, silky ears that were too big for his head.

Though the pup had come courtesy of Willas' kennels, it had been Margaery who had presented the gift to Sansa. Lord Willas had always been kind to Sansa. He was a gentle man, who was easily, thoughtlessly kind to everyone; but whenever he made a gift to Sansa, or made a special effort at gallantry towards her it always seemed to be at Margaery's urging.

"Loras will return for Garlan's wedding, of course," said Margaery. Sansa had not yet met the youngest Tyrell brother, who resided at Storm's End, but she had heard much and more of the knight of flowers. "In his last letter he broached the subject of my marrying Renly again."

The queen of thorns snorted; something few highborn ladies could have gotten away with. "Your brother should confine himself to the tourney ground and leave the game of courtship to those of us who better understand the rules."

*

After they took their leave of the Lady Olenna, Sansa and Margaery strolled arm in arm through Highgarden's grounds. Sansa had never grown entirely used to the way the fashions in the Reach left her arms bare, but she would not trade the feel of Margaery's sun-warmed skin for the finest of gowns.

"Will you marry Lord Renly, do you think?"

"You are very interested in my marriage prospects, Sansa."

If Sansa had learned nothing else at Highgarden, she had learned how to neatly deflect a question that she did not know how to answer. "I would have thought that all of the Reach was interested in your marriage prospects; mayhap all of Westeros."

"I'm not sure that the rest of the realm finds me as interesting as you seem to, Sansa," Margaery teased lightly.

Sansa deflected again; fencing with words was another lesson you needs must learn at Highgarden. "Lord Renly is brother to the king."

"The brother of a king is not himself a king," said Margaery. Sansa frowned; Margaery Tyrell would make a wonderful queen, but Sansa did not like to think of the other girl as being quite so mercenary. "Loras is a great knight, but he is still our father's thirdborn son. It is good that he has a powerful friend in Renly, but that Loras loves Renly is not reason enough for me to wed him."

"Robb's greatest friend is Theon Greyjoy," said Sansa.

Margaery laughed lightly. "Then you understand perfectly."

Margaery led Sansa off the path to sit on a stone bench in the dappled shade of a tree. She kept her arm looped loosely through Sansa's, and she idly stroked the skin of Sansa's wrist with her thumb. 

Margaery was careless in her affections. She often took Sansa's arm or hand as they walked; she would brush her fingers lightly against Sansa's shoulder or waist, and whisper remarks meant for Sansa only into her ear. But she touched her cousins, her brothers, and even her favourite maids just as freely; and if the touches and glances she shared with Sansa lingered and felt increasingly intimate, well, that was natural enough when ladies were close, wasn't it?

"I'd like you to come with me," said Margaery.

Sansa almost agreed without asking, "Where?"

"We are to ride out to meet Loras. I would like you to meet him and Renly, both. I should be interested to know what you make of them."

*

Ser Loras Tyrell was beautiful, that was the second thing that Sansa noticed about him. The first thing she noticed was how closely he resembled his sister.

Margaery made a point of introducing Sansa as their grandmother's ward and her own dear companion. Standing in the dust of the Roseroad, Ser Loras made Sansa a full courtly bow. 

Sansa thought that if Ser Loras had accompanied his sister and grandmother to Winterfell then he might easily have been the one who won her admiration and affection.

*

Sansa sat on the edge of a fountain in a secluded and slightly overgrown courtyard; the pup was snuffling around at her feet. 

Margaery found her there; she was the one who'd shown Sansa this half-forgotten part of the grounds. She scooped the puppy into her arms and fussed over him for a moment before sitting next to Sansa. 

"Does this little fellow have a name yet?" Margaery asked. 

The puppy's paws were oversized, and as yet he could only make three of his legs work in concert. "Prince," Sansa answered.

"A fine name," said Margaery; she set Prince down on the fountain wall where he immediately started batting a paw at his reflection in the water.

"When you told me that your brother loved Lord Renly," Sansa began, watching the puppy's antics so she wouldn't have to meet Margaery's eyes, "you didn't mean that Ser Loras loves him as a brother or as his liege lord, did you?"

Sansa risked a peek at the other girl; Margaery did not look at all scandalised. "How could you tell?" she asked.

"The way they look at each other. It's--" Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat, and the words came without her ever really deciding to say them. "It's the same way I look at you."

Margaery's hand on Sansa's knee was as light as a feather. "I know," she said gently. "I've known ever since that day at Winterfell when you gave me that blue rose."

Sansa hadn't known herself then, not truly; all she'd known was that she wanted to be close to Margaery. "You've given me a thousand roses since then--"

Margaery nodded at Prince. "And a puppy."

"You never said anything."

Margaery withdrew her hand from Sansa's leg, and Sansa's stomach lurched. 

"It's curious," said Margaery, "we women are often married to men twice our ages, but sometimes a gap of two years can feel as wide as the ocean."

"You thought me a child," Sansa said sadly.

"I thought your head was sure to be turned by some handsome knight of the Reach." Sansa shook her head in denial, but before she could say anything Margaery's hand was back on her knee. "Have you ever been kissed, my lady?"

Sixteen and a woman flowered, and the closest Sansa had come was playing kissing games in the Godswood with Jeyne Poole. Those kisses had been sweet enough, but it had been naught but a children's game. "No," she breathed. 

Margaery's hand was still on her knee, with her other hand she cupped Sansa's cheek. "May I...?" she asked, moving closer.

Sansa's barely perceptible nod was all it took. Margaery's lips were warm and soft; the hand that had been cupping Sansa's face slid upwards into her hair. Sansa wasn't sure what she should do with her own hands, though she knew she wanted to do _something_ with them; she settled for resting one on Margaery's waist, and clutching Margaery's shoulder with the other. 

Margaery pressed closer. Sansa's lips parted with a sigh, and Margaery touched the tip of her tongue to Sansa's. 

At Winterfell Sansa had once been disgusted by the sight of Theon shoving his tongue into a serving girl's mouth; but maybe Theon had been doing it wrong, because Sansa tingled all over, and opened her mouth for Margaery's tongue.

Sansa did not know how long they might have kissed if Prince had not gone plunging into the fountain with a yowl. They broke apart giggling, and soaked their gowns fishing the puppy out of the fountain.

*

There were many things to recommend Highgarden, but Sansa's new favourite was its abundance of secluded places in which kisses could be stolen. The many small gardens, rarely trodden paths, and half-hidden arbors seemed almost to have been designed for the purpose of secret romance. 

Sansa and Margaery still spent their mornings with the queen of thorns; they still rode out with Margaery's cousins and the other ladies of the Reach. In front of others Margaery acted towards Sansa just as she always had - as her grandmother's ward, whom she'd taken under her wing.

Sansa tried to follow her lead, but she found it hard to believe that her feelings for Margaery weren't written all over her face. On the other hand, according to Margaery, they always had been, so mayhap no one noticed any change. 

But Margaery was as skilled at stealing moments as she was at stealing kisses. They were tucked away in a dead end of a small maze; Margaery was nuzzling Sansa's throat. 

"If this was a story," Sansa began, toying with the ends of Margaery's hair, "one of us would have a cruel husband."

Margaery looked up from tasting the soft skin below Sansa's ear. "Why a cruel husband?"

Because I wouldn't want to betray a kind one, Sansa almost replied. "Because that's how it always is in the stories; the young wife has a cruel husband who will kill her lover if they're discovered, so they can only meet in secret."

"Ah," said Margaery with an indulgent smile. "Knights and maidens, is it? Which am I?"

"The knight of stolen kisses," said Sansa, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of Margaery's nose. 

"Ah, Lady Stark," said Margaery with mock offence, "now I see all your talk of how I was like a maiden from a song for the empty flattery that it was."

Sansa stroked her hands down Margaery's bare arms. "You can be both the knight and the maiden," she said. "It's my tale, and I say you can be both."

*

Ser Garlan's wedding came and went, and Leonette Fossoway joined the circle of ladies that surrounded Margaery. Ser Loras and Lord Renly departed for Storm's End after a private supper with Margaery, her father, and grandmother. 

That night Sansa let Prince sleep on her bed. The half-grown pup looked at her with blind adoration as Sansa stroked his long, soft ears and whispered to him about Margaery and her sweet, secret kisses. 

After all, there was no one else to tell.

*

Margaery had spread a blanket out on the grass of the orchard, and Sansa was lying with her head on the other girl's lap while Margaery stroked her hair. From a distance the scene might almost have appeared innocent. 

"Do you know much of Lyanna Stark?" Margaery asked nonchalantly. 

Sansa had been half dozing. "Only what everyone knows," she said lazily. "She was my father's sister, she was betrothed to King Robert, Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped her, and, well..." Sansa propped herself up on her elbow. "Why do you ask?"

"It was only that Renly mentioned that he thought I resembled her," Margaery replied hopefully.

"I didn't realise that Lord Renly had ever met my aunt," said Sansa. Surely Renly had been little more than a babe when Lyanna died; but mayhap there was a portrait of her at Storm's End. "But I don't think that you can look much like her. My father always said that Arya looks very like our aunt."

"Oh," Margaery pouted, looking crestfallen.

"They say Lady Lyanna was a great beauty," said Sansa, sitting up so that she was level with Margaery, "just as you are. Mayhap that's what Lord Renly meant." 

Margaery rolled her eyes, but when Sansa leaned towards her, she closed the distance and sank into the kiss.

*

Letters from Winterfell arrived only occasionally, and only when a rider could be found who was going so far south. It was from these letters that Sansa had learned of Robb's betrothal to a maid of the Westerlands, that Jon Snow had taken the black, and that Jeyne Poole had decided that she was in love with Theon Greyjoy.

So when the news of Bran's fall arrived by raven, Sansa had known the news must be grave before she'd even opened it.

"I'm sorry," she sniffled against Margaery's neck. "I don't know why I'm still crying, it's not as though he's dead."

But Bran would never walk again. Her little brother, who was so easy to love, who climbed like a squirrel, who was the only one of her siblings to share her fascination with southron chivalry, and who had wanted to be a knight; he would never walk again. 

Sansa was overcome by a fresh wave of sobs. 

"It's all right," said Margaery, rubbing slow, soothing circles on Sansa's back. "I wept too when I first heard of Willas' accident."

Prince walked in circles and pawed at the rug, not sure what to make of his mistress' distress. 

Margaery kissed the tears from her cheeks, and when she pressed her mouth to Sansa's she tasted of salt. 

Sansa realised that this was the first time Margaery had been in her bedchamber since the first time they'd kissed, and then she felt guilty for thinking of Margaery when she ought to have been thinking of Bran.

"You could talk to Willas," Margaery suggested when Sansa pulled away. 

"What--?" It had been a long time since Margaery had tried to cast Sansa into her brother's path.

"You could ask him to write to your brother at Winterfell; it might help Bran to hear from someone who's had a similar accident."

"Oh." Sansa tucked herself against Margaery. "Yes, maybe."

*

"We were sorry to hear about your brother, Sansa," said the queen of thorns the next morning. 

"Thank you, my lady."

"But here is some news for you: we are to have a royal visit to Highgarden." The queen of thorns snorted. "As though we haven't enough problems."

"Grandmother!" exclaimed Margaery. "A royal visit is a great honour." 

"The king and queen--" Sansa began, already imaging a royal retinue snaking down the Roseroad. 

"No," said Lady Olenna with a sharp glance at Margaery, "only the king."

She proceeded to question Sansa about the king; she had heard that he was a very great friend of Sansa's father, had she ever met the man?

Sansa answered politely, but something was already nagging at the back of her mind.

*

It wasn't until days later when they were strolling arm in arm through the gardens that it struck Sansa all at once - the royal visit, Margaery asking about Lyanna, something the other girl had said about Renly, _the brother of a king was not himself a king._

Sansa pulled free of Margaery. "He already has a queen," she said bluntly. 

Margaery's expression flashed from surprise to respect to annoyance. "For the moment. Renly says there's no love lost between the king and Cersei Lannister."

"Margaery, you wouldn't--"

"He's a king," said Margaery as thought that explained everything.

"He's old," said Sansa.

"So am I." 

Sansa blinked in confusion. "What--?"

"I'm nineteen, Sansa! I'm not Arianne Martell to turn down perfectly acceptable suitors in the knowledge that I can rule in my own name." 

Sansa knew that the Martells had refused a match between Princess Arianne and Lord Willas not long before she had come to Highgarden. 

"The only reason I have remained unwed this long is that my father has ambitions to make a queen of me. Or--" Margaery smirked unpleasantly; she had never looked at Sansa in that way before "--did you think that was because of you?"

Sansa started back from Maragery, shocked and hurt. "I didn't--"

"Wait!" Margaery caught Sansa's hand. Her voice had turned wheedling and soft, like it did when she was trying to coax Sansa into wearing a gown that she found slightly too scandalous, or mounting a horse that she found slightly too intimidating. "Think of it, if I married the king you could stay with me as one of my ladies. What was that story you told me, about the young wife and her lover?" 

Sansa drew her hand free. She dipped a curtsy and said, "If you'll excuse me, Lady Margaery, I wish to write to my brother."

*

Robert Baratheon was not all that Sansa might have expected a king to be. He was of an age with Sansa's father, but looked much older. He was hugely fat, and she was yet to see him without a wineskin in hand. 

Even the two knights of the kingsguard who had accompanied him, Ser Boros Blount and Ser Preston Greenfield, were hardly the stuff of Sansa's imaginings. When she had pictured the kingsguard she had pictured the likes of Garlan and Loras Tyrell seven times over.

For the welcoming feast Lady Margaery was seated next to Robert, where she proceeded to charm the king.

Sansa was not a lackwit; she did not think that _she_ could marry Margaery, and she knew that neither of them could remain unwed indefinitely. But at the thought of Margaery on the arm of this fat king, or...in his bed, Sansa's stomach roiled. 

"Lady Sansa, come here," the queen of thorns summoned her. "King Robert wishes to meet you."

The king kissed Sansa's hand; she could smell the stale wine on his skin. He asked after her father, and then said, "You look very like your mother."

From King Robert this did not sound precisely like the compliment it usually did.

He hoped that I would look like Lyanna, Sansa realised, and he's disappointed that I don't. 

"Thank you, your grace," Sansa replied, but the king was already looking through her to Taena Merryweather. 

If Sansa did not hold the king's interest then at least neither did Margaery; Robert had flirted heavily with Margaery earlier in the evening, but as he sank deeper into his cups he'd turned his attention from the maiden daughter of Highgarden to the married, but with an absent husband, Lady Taena. 

As Sansa retook her seat Margaery caught her eye; she gave a tiny, lopsided shrug and popped a cherry into her mouth.

Sansa resisted the urge to smile at her, instead turning to the person seated next to her. "Lord Willas, may I have a moment of your time somewhere quieter?"

It was probably not the best way to get back at Margaery, by doing exactly what she'd suggested Sansa do, but Sansa did not think that she had the temperament for these games that Margaery seemed so adept at.

*

Lord Willas was as kind as Sansa could have hoped for. 

He would, of course, be happy to write to Sansa's brother. They might even think of inviting Bran to visit Highgarden; Willas himself had begun to feel better after departing the scene of his accident. 

Willas told Sansa that he had heard that the prince of Dorne had lost the use of his legs and travelled by means of a rolling chair. He mentioned that he was an intimate friend of Oberyn Martell's, and asked if Sansa's parents would find it presumptuous if Willas wrote to him for the design; it would save Winterfell's maester from having to reinvent the wheel, he said. 

Sansa left Willas with her mood much improved. Lord Willas was kind, he was thoughtful, he was fair of face - it was not his fault that his sister had already turned Sansa's head.

Sansa found Margaery lingering just around the corner from her brother's solar.

 _Were you jealous?_ Sansa wondered, and found that the idea gave her no pleasure.

Margaery seized her around the waist and spun her around; as though they hadn't quarreled, as though Sansa hadn't been avoiding her for days. "Share my bed tonight?" she asked with a sly smile.

Sansa had been bedmaid to Margaery before; first on the road from Winterfell, and then later whenever Margaery wasn't sharing her bed with one of her cousins. That had all stopped with their first kiss. 

Sansa reached for her annoyance at Margaery, only to find that it had evaporated as though it had never been there. "Yes."

Margaery shot a quick, darting glance around, and then stood on her toes to press a quick kiss to Sansa's lips. "I can't wait."

*

The feast seemed to drag on through half the night. At least, until King Robert retired, following Taena Merryweather who'd left the hall with a sultry look over her shoulder.

A servant had been dispatched to Sansa's rooms to fetch her nightclothes, so she retired directly to Margaery's bedchamber.

A maid undressed Margaery and helped her into her nightgown; Sansa busied herself with the collection of bottles on the dresser, and blushed whenever she happened to catch a glimpse of Margaery in the looking glass.

Margaery dismissed the maid, saying that she would help Sansa dress for bed herself.

She stepped up behind Sansa, pushed her gown off her shoulders and pressed a row of kisses to the exposed skin there. She tugged Sansa's stays free; Sansa was reminded of one sunny afternoon in a walled garden that Margaery had sworn no-one else visited, where the Tyrell girl had unlaced Sansa, pushed her gown down to her waist, and licked and sucked at her breasts until Sansa could hardly breathe.

Margaery relieved Sansa of her clothes, then stepped away just as Sansa was leaning back into her touch. Sansa tugged her nightgown over her head; she was bright red with arousal and embarrassment. When she worked up the courage to turn around Margaery was already sliding between the sheets; Sansa thought she looked a little flushed too. 

Margaery patted the empty side of the bed. "Join me, my lady, if it please you."

Sansa sat on the edge of the bed; she shyly reached for Margaery's hand. "I..." Sansa was unable to meet Margaery's eyes.

Margaery sat up and covered Sansa's mouth with her own. Sansa eased into the kiss and followed Margaery down onto the bed. She ended up lying half atop the other girl with the coverlet tangled up between them. Sansa's hair fell about them like a curtain and Margaery's hands traced the curve of Sansa's breasts.

It was Margaery who broke off their breathless kiss. "If you would prefer to sleep--?"

"No, I--" began Sansa. "I've never been less tired." She wriggled until she was under the covers and pressed flush against Margaery.

Sansa sometimes wondered if Margaery had loved other girls before her. It was Margaery who always took the lead in their embraces, and who always seemed to know what she was doing. But there was a drawn out, breathless moment when Margaery didn't seem to know what came next anymore than Sansa did; then Margaery rolled them over so that she was on top. She ducked her head and mouthed down Sansa's throat; tugging the neck of her nightgown down to kiss the slopes of Sansa's breasts. 

Sansa arched her back and buried her hands in Margaery's hair. 

That heat that sometimes coiled in Sansa's belly when her kisses with Margaery grew particularly ardent was building. Sansa would usually squeeze her thighs together for some relief, but her legs were all tangled up with Margaery's.

Margaery had straddled one of Sansa's thighs, and her own leg was pressed firmly against Sansa's center; before she could talk herself out of it Sansa tugged Margaery's nightgown up around her hips, and let out a squeak at the feel of Margaery hot and slippery against her thigh. 

Margaery inhaled sharply; she reached down and hiked Sansa's nightgown up out of the way. She pressed against Sansa, and they slid against each to a chorus of tiny gasps and sighs. 

Sansa pressed up against Margaery's thigh with increasing urgency. Her thighs quivered, her breath came in gasps, and her... _cunt_ , she told herself; you're rubbing yours against Margaery Tyrell's leg, you can think the word, clenched and spasmed. 

Sansa dragged Margaery down into a kiss to stop herself from crying out. She collapsed back onto the pillows; it was like every muscle in her body had stopped working all at once. When she opened her eyes Margaery was braced over her with tension writ in every line of her body and a thwarted expression on her face.

Sansa's embarrassment came rushing in to fill the empty space left after her peak. "Did I-- did I do something wrong?"

"No, I..." Margaery took Sansa by the wrist and guided her hand between Margaery's legs until Sansa's fingers were pressed against her nub. "Just-- hold still."

Margaery moved her hips in stuttering little circles against Sansa's hand. Her expression turned from one of frustration to one of pleasure. Her head tipped forward until her lips were next to Sansa's ear. "Sweet girl," she said, "wolf girl. Ah, ah, _ah_..."

Margaery shuddered and collapsed bonelessly next to Sansa.

"Margaery--?"

Margaery drew Sansa's hand, the one that had recently been between her legs, up to her lips; she kissed Sansa's knuckles, the tips of her fingers. "Sweet girl," she said sleepily, "wolf girl."

*

It was the maid's entrance that woke them. 

Sansa's lips felt swollen; she felt wet and messy between her legs, and she could only imagine how guilty she must look.

Margaery, though, bid the maid a bright good morning. She declined breakfast, "but," she added with a sly, sideways smile at Sansa, "I think that we would both like to bathe this morning."

Sansa kept her flaming face averted until the maid departed. Margaery cupped Sansa's jaw and tilted her face up until their eyes met. "Ladies share their beds, Sansa."

"Not like we do?" Sansa meant for it to be a statement, but it came out half a question. 

"No, sweetling," said Margaery pressing a gentle kiss to Sansa's lips. "Not like we do."

Sansa returned to her own chambers only to discover that Prince had ripped apart her pillows in protest at being locked alone in her bedchamber all night. 

"Sorry, boy," Sansa apologised to the hound, rubbing his ears. "Next time I'll ask Elinor to let you out."

Sansa realised that she was already wondering when she might share Margaery's bed again.

*

Margaery's engagement to the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon, was announced on the eve of her twentieth nameday. 

The prince's grandfather, Tywin Lannister, and the queen of thorns had arranged the betrothal; that alone was enough to make Sansa think that something more would come of this match. 

It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Margaery's eventual marriage had been the subject of speculation for as long as Sansa had known her, and in truth it was past time. 

Sansa walked Prince through the gardens. Only once she was sure she had escaped prying eyes did she kneel and weep into the hound's fur; then she rose, dried her eyes, and sought Margaery out in the grand arbor where wedding preparations were already underway.

She curtsied gracefully. "Lady Margaery, I know you will make a wonderful queen."

Margaery took Sansa's hands and swooped in to press a chaste kiss to her cheek. "Come to me tonight," she whispered in Sansa ear.

Sansa knew she shouldn't. This would be the third time in a week that she'd shared Margaery's bed; the assorted ladies of the Reach who vied for Margaery's favour were sure to notice.

But Sansa had never been able to refuse Margaery even before she had been the queen-in-waiting; she inclined her head in acquiescence. 

*

Sansa had returned to her own chambers to bathe and change before joining Margaery and her grandmother for breakfast. 

She was very aware of her body this morning. Sansa was used to following Margaery's lead in bed; she trusted the other girl to know what would feel good, and to know what they could do and still remain maidens for their marriage beds. But after last night, when Margaery had pressed her mouth between Sansa's legs and flicked her tongue just so; something that she'd laughingly named the _lady's kiss_ , well, Sansa didn't feel especially maidenly. 

She was approaching the queen of thorns' gardens when she heard Lady Olenna's voice. "No Sansa this morning, Margaery?"

"She wished to bathe, she'll join us later."

"Ah. I thought perhaps there had been a lover's quarrel."

Sansa froze, and Margaery exclaimed, "Grandmother!" 

"Don't _grandmother_ me, Margaery; I'm old, not blind. If you needs must take a lover I suppose this is the least foolish way of going about it, but you might at least have chosen a woman who didn't look at you with such cow eyes."

Sansa could almost hear the shrug in Margaery's voice when she said, "I enjoy the way Sansa looks at me."

"You must know that you have to put an end to it. This royal boy is not one you can risk horning; and as for Sansa, if she is to marry Willas... well, it is one thing for a woman to have a lover so long as she is discreet, but your own brother's wife?"

"If she were to marry Loras instead..."

There was a long pause, followed by the scrape of a chair, and the tapping of the queen of thorns' cane. "You are to be queen, Margaery. Give up your Stark girl before it ends in blood and tears."

 

_iii. King's Landing_

The hand of the king was dead. 

Sansa had never met Jon Arryn, but his death and her father's elevation meant that she joined the Tyrell retinue for the journey to King's Landing where she would reunite with her family and attend the royal wedding.

The Tyrells arrived in advance of the new hand of the king. Lady Margaery was met by her betrothed and his family. Prince Joffrey had golden hair and wore cloth-of-gold; he was as fair as King Robert was corpulent, but when he kissed Margaery in greeting Sansa thought that his lips looked like worms and that his smile did not reach his eyes.

Sansa knew that she should not be jealous; she had never had a claim on Margaery Tyrell, and she had less of one now. 

They hadn't spoken of ending their romance, it had happened almost without words... The plans for Margaery's wedding had quickly taken over life at Highgarden, and then there had been almost no privacy on the road to King's Landing. 

They had stayed one night at the castle at Rosby. Margaery had closed her chamber door, pushed Sansa up against it, and kissed her deeply. It was the first time alone together they'd had since Sansa had overheard the queen of thorns speaking of her like she was a doll that Margaery really ought to put aside. For the first time it felt like they were having an affair, for the first time Margaery's touch felt... sordid. 

Sansa had caught Margaery's wrist just as she was tugging Sansa's skirts up. "I can't," she'd said. "You're to be married, and I just... _can't_."

They had spoken since, of foolish things; gowns, and the weather, and whether Prince's coat needed to be brushed, but there had been no more kisses, no more lingering glances, no more bedsharing. 

*

They had been in King's Landing for little more than a week when something happened to drive almost all thoughts of Margaery Tyrell from Sansa's head: Lord Eddard Stark arrived to assume his position as hand of the king; he brought with him his son, Bran, and daughter, Arya.

Sansa had been fourteen when she last laid eyes on her family. She was eighteen now; a woman flowered, all but officially engaged to Willas Tyrell, and then there was Margaery-- Oftentimes Sansa could convince herself that what had happened between her and Margaery was the natural extension of those kissing games she'd once played with Jeyne Poole; sometimes she thought that her love for Margaery must have left some sort of indelible mark on her skin.

Sansa worried that she and her family would be strangers to one another, but when the Starks rode into the courtyard she felt an immediate sense of homecoming.

Lord Eddard looked a little older and uncomfortable in southron heat, but he was still the father that Sansa remembered. Arya carried a dirk on her hip, she wore her long dark hair loose, and she had grown somewhat into her long face; Sansa could now see how she might look like the infamous Lady Lyanna. Atop his horse Bran rode as tall as any man, and it wasn't until he drew closer that Sansa saw the straps that held his legs in place. 

Lord Eddard dismounted and took Sansa by the shoulders. "You've grown taller."

"Yes, father."

"And more beautiful." Sansa's father pulled her into a fierce hug.

*

In the days following his arrival her father questioned her at length on Highgarden and Willas. Sansa told him that Margaery's brother was a good man, a just lord, and that she couldn't imagine a better husband; the fact that this was the truth made her feel all the guiltier. 

Lord Eddard had been called to a meeting of the small council; Sansa lingered in the Tower of the Hand with her brother and sister. Bran was in his rolling chair; Arya was sitting on the floor rubbing Prince's belly, much to the delight of Sansa's faithless hound. 

They were filling Sansa in on all the news from Winterfell that hadn't reached her by letter; she had just learned that Jeyne Poole had borne Theon Greyjoy a bastard.

"To Theon's credit," said Bran, "he dotes on the boy."

"For as long as that lasts," Arya added cynically. 

"Why wouldn't Jeyne write to me that she'd had a son?" Sansa wondered aloud.

"Mayhap she thought you'd be unkind," Bran said gently. "She remembers the way you used to speak of Jon's birth."

"I--" Sansa thoughts turned once again to Margaery Tyrell; some of those gardens had been less private than they might have wished, and once Sansa's smallclothes had turned up in Margaery's laundry. "People in love take foolish risks."

"Ha!" exclaimed Bran, happy to change the subject. "That sounds like something your Lord Dayne might say."

"What's this?" Sansa asked, just as Arya snapped, "He's not _my_ Lord Dayne."

"We met the Lord of Starfall on the Kingsroad," Bran answered, flashing a teasing grin. "Arya turned his head, rather."

"Shut up, stupid!" said Arya, giving Bran a thump on the knee that she must know he couldn't feel. "Don't you laugh," she ordered Sansa.

Sansa forced her features into an expression of utmost solemnity. It was rather amusing, though; Arya catching the eye of dashing southron lords while Sansa couldn't seem to see beyond the shadow of Margaery Tyrell.

*

As a child Arya had loved to ride and this had not changed, and Bran spent as much time ahorse as he could; neither of them could joust, but that did not stop them and Prince Tommen from racing their horses up and down the tiltyard at full gallop.

Sansa and Princess Myrcella looked on in the manner of indulgent older sisters everywhere; Sansa kept one hand on Prince's collar to stop him from tearing off after the horses. The princess was quiet and courteous; she styled her golden hair so as to hide the scar she'd received in an attempted kidnapping in her youth. 

"If I may ask, princess," Sansa began hesitantly, "what is your brother truly like?"

Bran and Arya both overtook Tommen in a thunder of hooves, and the young prince laughed with delighted. 

Princess Myrcella smiled an easy smile at the mention of her brother. "Tommen is sweet natured, my lady. But as you can see, he is no horseman."

"No, I-- I beg your pardon, I meant Prince Joffrey."

Myrcella's expression turned to stone; she ducked her head, and her hair fell into her face. "My brother is tall and fair, and as brave as a lion."

That was what everyone said of the crown prince; that was _all_ anyone said of the crown prince. "I had heard-- It is only that Lady Margaery means a great deal to me, and she's to be his wife."

The princess whispered something that Sansa couldn't quite make out through her curtain of hair. "I'm sorry--?"

"I said it wasn't kidnappers!" Myrcella's head snapped up; her eyes were blazing, and her hair had whipped aside to reveal the ugly scar from where her cheek had been laid open to the bone; half of her ear was missing too. "It wasn't kidnappers," she repeated more softly, "that was the story Varys put about, but it was Joff."

*

"He's a monster."

Margaery nodded briskly at the two ladies, minor Tyrell cousins, who were going through fabric samples in her chambers; they left quickly, closing the door behind them.

"I know."

"I spoke to his sister, and--"

"Sansa, I _know_." Margaery stood and approached her. "Do you honestly think my grandmother would be marrying me to the prince without knowing every last thing about him?"

"Then how can you--?"

Margaery gave a halfhearted shrug. "They say his family have kept him on a short leash ever since the ugliness with the princess. Loras and Renly live at court, Garlan and Leonette are staying after the wedding; my brothers will not allow any harm to come to me." Margaery took Sansa's hand. "You could stay too, queens need ladies-in-waiting. You could marry Loras or Renly; we already know that they would not ask much of you in the way of wifely duties."

It would have been easy to hate Margaery in moments like this, when she assumed that Sansa would give up all her own dreams and ambitions in order to follow her. Sansa may not have plotted to make herself a queen, but there were things she wanted for herself: a kind husband, to be lady of a grand castle, children of her own. 

But Sansa had never been able to summon the will to mislike Margaery. She pressed two of her fingertips to Margaery's lips. "Enough. Just... stop."

Margaery pressed her lips against Sansa's fingertips; she turned Sansa's hand over and kissed the back of her hand before drawing back with a wry smile. "May I come to you before the wedding? I don't like to leave things between us like this."

Sansa thought of Princess Myrcella's scars. "Don't endanger yourself," she said, "I couldn't bear it."

*

Margaery came to Sansa on the afternoon before her wedding.

"Won't you be missed?"

Margaery's lips quirked up. "It turns out that somewhere between the fabric for the dress and the ninth course at the wedding feast comes a point where the bride's opinion is no longer required."

Margaery locked Sansa's door and Sansa rose gracefully to meet her. The kiss was bittersweet; Sansa closed her eyes and pulled Margaery close until even air couldn't have come between them.

Margaery nudged them back towards the bed, reaching for the fastenings of Sansa's gown. Walking backwards in skirts while being kissed without falling over, another skill Sansa had learned at Highgarden.

Sansa's dress fell away and Margaery broke off their kiss and turned her attention to unlacing Sansa's stays. Sansa sank back onto the bed and buried her hands in Margaery's curls as Margaery applied her mouth to everywhere Sansa's corset had left a red mark. 

Afterwards, they lay together amongst tangled bedclothes. Margaery was pressed against Sansa's side, humming something off-key into the crook of Sansa's neck. It was a secret only known to Margaery, Sansa, and Margaery's old music master: that the rose of Highgarden had no singing voice at all. It took Sansa a few moments to recognise the tune as _The Seasons of My Love_. 

"I loved a maid as red as summer," Margaery half-sang, "with sunset in her hair." She propped herself up on her elbow and looked at Sansa as though she were an object of the utmost curiosity. "I do love you, Sansa. I should never have allowed it to happen; it was only ever leading here."

Sansa traced a pattern of Margaery's hip, trying not to dwell on the likelihood that this was the last time they would ever lay like this. "Do you think you will ever come to love him?"

Margaery's voice was carefully neutral when she said, "I am sure I will find much to admire in the crown prince." Her tone lightened when she said, "You should try to love Willas, though, he deserves it. I hear you are returning to Highgarden after the wedding."

"Almost straight after." Sansa had no wish to stay for the bedding. "Lord Willas was kind enough to invite Bran to visit."

"I am sure Lord Brandon will have Elinor and the others wrapped around his little finger in short order," said Margaery.

Sansa rather suspected it would be the other way around; but she harboured hopes that the young maidens of Highgarden, who were so used to Willas' twisted limb and cane, would be able to see past Bran's useless legs.

"That reminds me," said Margaery, rising from the bed much to Sansa's dismay, "I've brought you something."

Margaery stood and stretched, seemingly heedless of her nudity. Sansa blushed; but instead of looking away she stared, committing the lines and curves of Margaery's body to memory. 

Margaery crouched by the pool her gown and smallclothes had made when she'd stripped out of them; she surfaced holding a small velvet bag. 

The mattress dipped as Margaery sat back down. "Hold out your hands," she instructed, and a necklace of purple amethysts spilled from the bag into Sansa's palms.

"Margaery, you shouldn't have--" Sansa began, but at Margaery's urging she held her hair back while Margaery clasped the necklace about her throat.

"I want you to wear it to my wedding. I want you to know that it's you I'm thinking of." Margaery pressed a soft kiss to Sansa's shoulder. "Promise me?"

"I promise."

**Author's Note:**

> There is a coda to this fic at my tumblr: http://netgirl-y2k.tumblr.com/post/113120998394/timestamp-meme-2


End file.
